


Daffodils

by Amelior8or



Series: Drarryland 2019 [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drarryland: A Drarry Game/Fest, Gen, Groundskeeper Harry, Hogwarts, M/M, Mentioned minor character death (Narcissa Malfoy), Professor Draco Malfoy, Professor Neville Longbottom (mentioned)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 17:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18695947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelior8or/pseuds/Amelior8or
Summary: Harry is the Groundskeeper at Hogwarts, which means he had free reign to make any landscaping decisions he wants. Including planting flowers outside the windows of the Potions classroom.





	Daffodils

**Author's Note:**

> For the Drarryland prompt: Sometimes you've got to get your hands dirty. Literally. Drarry + Physical labor. Minimum: 399 words - Maximum: 899 words. 
> 
> With a massive, grateful thank you to the lovely Etalice, who took the flat, boring first draft of this and steered me in the direction I needed to make it better.

 

The shovel crunched into the dirt with resistance, pushing against knots of roots and scraping against stray pebbles. Harry braced his foot and pushed the shovel deeper into the ground before shifting his grip to lever it up and toss the dirt over his shoulder.

It was only a small stretch of ground by the windows of the Potions classroom, unattended for decades and grudgingly shifting at the push of Harry’s shovel. Neville had warned him about how tough it’d be to garden here. The November air snapped with a pending frost, promising to stiffen the ground against hosting the fresh soil Harry would introduce. But he was planting daffodils, wintering bulbs, strong enough to nestle into the cold earth and surge up at the first warmth of spring.

Harry plans to watch them grow, to check on the bulbs while he tends to Neville’s greenhouses and the Quidditch pitch. He was the Groundskeeper at Hogwarts, baby-sitting the thestrals, scolding the mermaids, and guarding pending daffodils.

Once he’d realized that his home would always be Hogwarts, more than anywhere else in Wizarding London, McGonagall had dropped some very strong hints that Harry would be welcome to take over the post for Defense instructor. Still, he liked being Groundskeeper more — he was always outside, he had his own small cottage separate from the castle’s shenanigans, and he never had to mark essays. Marking essays were all Neville and Draco seemed to complain about when Harry sat with them for dinner in the Great Hall.

Harry pushed the shovel into the dirt again, tossing the lumps and clods that came up. Neville had tried teaching him the planting spells he used with Third years, optimistically ignoring Harry’s perpetually abysmal Herbology marks. But Harry preferred it this way, manually, his muscles shifting with the work. Besides, the longer Harry stayed outside the Potions classroom, the better the odds of the Potions professor coming out to yell at him.

Having Draco yell at him wasn’t ideal. Harry preferred Draco talking to him about Quidditch, or teasing Harry about his terrible singing while Harry teased right back about the Snape-like swish of Draco’s robes. Draco yelling at him would be an improvement, though, to the frozen and withdrawn silences that have taken to surrounding Draco like gauze.

It had been about two weeks since the Prophet had gotten word of Narcissa’s funeral, two weeks of owled condolences and awkward sympathies. There had been one letter, rejoicing at the death of a Death Eater, that had slipped into the school with the morning mail, and that had made Draco stiffen and tighten like a decaying rose before he stood up and left without a word.

There were no more of those owls after, because the Groundskeeper is also the keeper of the Hogwarts owlery. Still, silence followed Draco after that. Harry didn’t know how Draco ran the Potions classes, but he only clipped out brief pleasantries at meals, no matter who tried to engage him. He no longer wrapped up his tall frame in excruciatingly flattering robes, in deep indigos and auburns and jades. Now everything was black, from his robes to his shirt to his tie. The effect drained the colour out of Draco, made his skin transparent, made his eyes ghostly, like a bit of the life that had fired him had drained away.

And so Harry felt relief when he heard the crunch of shoes behind the crunch of the shovel, and Draco snap, “What the hell are you doing, Potter?”

Harry turned with a soft smile. “I’m planting flowers.”

Draco frowned. He had grown into the imposing figure of a Potions Professor, though Harry personally thought Draco pulled it off better than his predecessors. Broad shoulders, lithe body, and razor sharp jawline — every single first year got a crush on Professor Malfoy at some point, and Harry didn’t blame them.

“Are you mad?” Draco asked, a bite in his voice that had been absent for years. “Who even wants flowers stuck here at the arse end of the castle? My students have potions that need to sit in the moonlight, and you’re going to block my fucking windows with shrubs?”

“I can get you bigger windows if you like,” Harry said. He wanted to offer Draco more, offer him everything. “Maybe a skylight. You could tell me what you need, and we can work on it together.”

Draco pressed his lips together. “It’ll take months to get it right.”

“That’s fine,” Harry said. “Narcissus doesn’t bloom ’til spring. We’ve got the winter.”

Draco stiffened, but not how he was stiff before. Now he was coiled, poised, suspended. “You’re planting Narcissus?”

“Muggles call ‘em Daffodils,” Harry said.

Draco swallowed. He opened his mouth, then swallowed again. “That’s incredibly undignified.”

“Neville says he’ll help me keep them blooming all year, not just in spring.” Harry said. “So you’ll always see a bit of her when you’re teaching.”

“Normal people just send an owl.”

“You didn’t like the owls.”

Draco watched him, staring at Harry like he was trying to stare through Harry, like he was finding a new face under the face Harry always had. Then he nodded, and took a deep breath. Carefully, he peeled off his outer robes, folding it and placing it on the windowsill. He pulled off his black tie, rolled up his black sleeves.

“Where do I dig?”


End file.
